Saturday, October 31, 2009

You know, I was all souped up to write a blog today that was full of anger at myself because I went clothes shopping and I was horrified at what I saw in the mirror. I was horrified at the shape my body’s in – the literal shape of it. I’m not the hourglassy big-boobed, big-assed fat girl with curves that go kablam, I’m the deathfat small boobed, big-bellied, backfatted flat-assed fat girl with curves that go in all the wrong ways. I was horrified as the clerk at the Lane folded my new pants and I swear they sounded like a truck stop gigantor American flag that is the size of a football field unfurling. It didn’t help matters that I was shopping with my inbetweenie sister who was able to buy all sorts of cute things and all the while bitching about what a fat hog she was.

Things didn’t improve when I got home and went to a message board and read posts filled with hate and disdain for people like me, people fat like me, people that purport to be my friend or friendly with me spewing this hate and disdain but would be the first to screech, “But I don’t mean youuuuu!” And the hate and disdain was just so fucking casual, so infuriatingly breezy, because me and others like me are subhuman, barely worth the oxygen we inhale, barely worth the space we take up unless we proclaim that we are “trying” and we’re so very sorry for sullying your view and we promise that one day, we’ll be thin, honest. But they don’t mean me, they never mean me, except when they mean me and shake their heads at how unhealthy I must be and how miserable I must be and how I’d be such a better person if I just wasn’t so...you know.

And I bought it all for a while, I was deep inside my head and going through all the familiar rigmarole of what I “needed” to do to “get back on the horse” and “exert some self-control”. Then I took a wander over to Jezebel and read this article and naturally, this paragraph leapt out, grabbed me by the shoulders, and gave me a good shake:

Large women are a lot like killer whales. Desperate for attention, consume massive amounts of raw fish, and need to be taught right from wrong on a pretty regular basis. By sleeping with a chubby gal who thinks that her double D breasts are, in any way, attractive is just fooling herself. If breasts, regardless of size, are propped up by a sumo-sized stomach, it doesn't count as sexy and by looking at them you're just re-enforcing bad behavior. Do you want to be part of the problem? Or part of the solution to try to get fat girls off of the streets and on a one way sewage barge to Australia.

The hate’s kind of breathtaking, isn’t it? And it’s hate that’s acceptable, appropriate, and oh so hiiiilarious because we’re subhuman, remember? Thing is, it’s not having the effect the epic, epic pile of excrement was hoping for. This sort of loathsome nonsense, coupled with the loathsome half-truths vomited out by the ill-informed only fuels my fire, it only makes me work harder, and be more determined that I will not accept that I am only as worthy as my size will allow. I will work as long as I have to so people aren’t consumed with self-hate like I was, like so many of us were, like so many of us still are, burning years of our lives swearing it’ll be better, different, do-able the second we’re thin, pretty/handsome, perfect.

I’m sure I’m repeating myself – I’d wager that I’ve said a variation on this a good...bazillionty times since the inception of this blog. I’ll repeat this message until I fall over dead because it’s a message that needs to be screamed on an endless loop, screamed into a din that is at the volume of jet engines, and maybe I’ll lose my voice before I make any significant dent in the utter insanity that is gripping our society. But I will continue writing what I write and saying what I say and believing what I believe because I don’t think I have a choice in the matter.

I am persuaded that there is some inbred human desire to feel superior to other people. In the olden days, you could look down on someone else's race or religion. Now we believe we are too sophisticated for all that, so we look down on size. We tell ourselves that we are doing it not for hateful for insecure or irrational reasons, but for Their Own Good. No, really, you're not. You are as much a bluenosing meddler and nosy posy as the bigot down the street who thinks everybody should be a Baptist or white.

Your strength gives me strength. I am trying so hard to fight this culture that tells me I am wrong just trying to be at peace with the world, wrong just because I won't diet and be mired in self-hate. And it helps a lot to hear you say you won't give in. I don't want to give in either.

In all seriousness, though, this article as a whole is disgusting, and I'm glad to see that there are a significant number of comments, presumably by men, saying so. I mean, if you're going for satire (which I don't really think they are, though it's certainly masked that way) you should, you know, actually be funny.

I want the title of this blog entry to be my new motto. I've looked in mirrors and cringed long enough. I've looked at my large upper arms burgeoning out of my top and thought "Yikes! I look like my Gramma!"

And what's wrong with that?

My Grandmother was a large Italian woman like many of that heritage. As she got older it became fashionable to join diet clubs. She was in one called TOPS (take off pounds sensibly) that made her put a wooden pig in her front yard because she didn't lose weight. I'll never forget that and thought that won't be me! I now know that demeaning people is no way to treat anyone no matter how much you may be trying to "help."I also know that's it's OK to have those big Italian woman arms. I'm not a pig.I have a healthy appetite.I'm a big woman.This is WHO I AM.And there's nothing wrong with me.Thanks for helping me realize that.